The Omashu Job
by Evil Riggs
Summary: In the heady days after the end of the Hundred-Year War, a crew of veteran thieves attempts a daring robbery on the streets of Omashu. Naturally, nothing goes quite as expected. An Avatar: The Last Airbender tribute to the crime comics of Aaron, Azzarello, Brubaker, and Cooke. Rated M for murderers, grifters, junkies, and whores.
1. 1

**THE OMASHU JOB**

**1**

Omashu. I can't believe I'm back in Omashu.

It's high summer in the city and the sandstone walls bleed heat like a tandoor oven. Even this late at night, the rush and clatter of the chutes echo through the streets. In dozens of terrace gardens, the cicada-moths trill and trill. Everything smells dry and rank and dusty. Even the scent of the neighbors' fresh naan has a rancid edge to it.

Not so different as I left it, truth be told.

I'm cramped up in this shabby little flat, sweating my balls off, waiting for a certain message to arrive at my doorstep. Again, not at all different than how I spent my last tenure in this fair city. I have no idea when that knock on my door is gonna come—could be in fifteen minutes, could come tomorrow night. Might never come. The bastards I'm working with ain't worth shit when it comes to logistics. Not that it matters, but it leaves a lot of time to wait and think and stew in my own revolting juices.

So. Here I sit, at a desk three sizes too small, with one of these newfangled fountain pens and a pile of paper I bought on a whim down at the Bulon Street bazaar. I want this to be over and done with tonight, so I don't think there'll be much fucking around. I hope. It's so easy to get rambling these days. I barely even notice that I'm doing it.

All right.

I suppose that this is a confession, then.

A long time ago—though it only feels like a week or so, sometimes—I came to Omashu to pull a job. No matter how many years have passed since then, I've never told a soul about what happened here. Being in the city again has summoned up all those old spirits, and given that I maybe don't have all that much time left, I figure that someone else ought to know. Even if I never meet 'em.

Cutting out the shit: I'm a thief. I've been a thief ever since I could properly run from whoever it was I was stealing from. You spend your whole life being a criminal, you tend to end up one of two ways: dead, or really good at it. Obviously, I'm the second thing. Still plenty of time to end up the first.

I been all over. Broke safes in Ba Sing Se. Lifted cargo from Fire Nation merchant marines in port. Dodged a dozen colonial patrols in towns long since gone ghostly. Extracted payola from South Pole whalers far outside their territories. Skimmed payroll from Republic steel contractors. Hell, I've been around long enough that I robbed coaches on the rim of the Great Divide.

But Omashu . . . Omashu's the one that's always stuck with me. I still wake up some nights with the sensation of my sandals slapping against the cobbles—smoke scraping my insides—panic and desperate anger still rising molten years after the fact.

It began like this:

"I have a job for you."

The words were brushed sloppily on cheap parchment, delivered to me by a falcon messenger. Below them were a meet-up site, some basic directions, and a single name that made it all snap together. I could've recognized that half-ass scrawl from across a busy market. It was only then that I started to take things seriously. Within a couple of hours, what things I had were packed and I was on the road, hooking rides toward Omashu.

It's easy to remember when all this took place, because it was just a couple of weeks after the end of the Hundred-Year War. Back in that manic, happy period between the Avatar's victory and the start of all those endless negotiations over colony rights and reparations. The only thing on people's lips—from the swankiest nobles to the piss-poorest beggars—was the sudden peace. Seemed like there was a goddamn parade or impromptu festival in every town I passed through. You couldn't hear yourself think for all the fireworks.

At the time, I was living a bit rough in this oceanside crap-heap of a town, drawing in a bit of money as muscle for a local numbers racket. The work was neither challenging nor rewarding. Every day I could feel my true skills withering. As such, the summons was as welcome as it was unexpected. I took the time to tender my resignation via a hearty go-fuck-yourself, but that was it. I didn't even take the time to clear everything out of the shack I had been squatting in—just grabbed what I could carry and was soon on my way.

Everything came together in this little roadside inn, just northwest of the city. A rough-hewn place leaning in on itself even in its heyday. It ain't there anymore, and I'll be damned if I can remember its name. Not that it's important.

We all met around the appointed time, each slipping in unobtrusively through the front doors as if just dropping by for a nightcap. All but two came in alone, but that was the way of it—every one of us knew not to make it a show. I wasn't the first, or the second, and each one of us made the entrance with a practiced apathy. Just travelers drifting in for a drink. Just a handful of men thirsty from the dust and heat and stink of the road.

There were five of us. A good number for a job like that. All guys I'd worked with in the past. All guys I'd looked forward to running with again.

Leng was pure, old-blood Fire Nation. The pale skin, amber eyes, and high, noble brow. That uncanny ability to talk down to anyone and everyone, regardless of rank or class. A skilled flimflam man, good on his feet and even better when it came to getting into small, out-of-the-way places. Too bad he had a junk habit long as a skink-viper and twice as twisted.

The Twins weren't actually twins, of course, but they looked enough alike that people had to ask. They got so sick of explaining they weren't related that they just started saying that they were. Turns out Kuru and Wen had come up together under the same earth-bending sifu, which explained why all their moves looked so goddamn similar. It didn't explain the identical tattoos and facial hair, but what the hell—they had a good racket, and who was I to question it?

Then there was Matsuma. My man. My brother.

I met Matsuma when we were both street punks running away from different orphanages. Matsu was a mutt and a runt of a thing, all protruding bones beneath his skin. He had the copper eyes of Fire and wiry hair of Earth and a touch of brown in his skin that might have been Water. Later, when he got a little political, he liked to confide that his mother had been raped by a Fire Nation officer—but I've always suspected that she was a prostitute who forgot to brew her moon tea that month.

Not that I ever said that to Matsuma's face, mind you.

Matsu proved that you didn't have to be a bender to kick the ever-living shit out of someone. Nor did you have to be particularly big to do it. He was a dirty fighter, Matsuma was. A biter of ears and kicker of testicles. He liked holdout knives hidden in shirtsleeves and was a bloody guru with a throwing axe.

It was Matsuma who had called this little shindig together. His blocky, half-literate signature had been on the dictated letters each of us had received.

And me? You'd have to look hard and close to realize that I was born Water Tribe. I've got dark skin, no doubt, but I'm more than few shades lighter than my cousins on the Poles. Built big as a platypus-bear and just as hairy. Back in those days, I'd walk into a room and people would stop talking. They'd tend to stare a moment, then turn away quickly from those deep-set gray eyes of mine. A man as big and ugly as I was, you didn't want to fuck with.

One glance at me and I'd bet you'd assume I'm The Muscle. Body and brow like that? Trust me, I don't blame you. What else could I do but mete out violence?

Truth is, I wasn't ever The Muscle—The Heavy—The Blood Bastard. That always fell to Kuru and Wen during the times I ran with 'em. And don't get me wrong—I can still swing a mean war club. Got a machete arm like a spring-loaded trap. I've busted more than a few skulls in my time. Thing is, it ain't my specialty. As long as I can remember, I've always been The Cracker.

The hell you say, you say. With those callused mitts? With those bloated arms?

All true, though. It's strange how much dexterity is learned rather than inbred. And with Earth Kingdom locks, you gotta learn quick or get nicked. I was—and _am, _fuck you very much—one of those lucky few who can break any lock no matter how tailored it is to bender sensibilities.

Show me a North Pole gel lock and I'll show you the syringe and vial of mercury needed to tip its balance. Give me one of those buried Earth Kingdom jobs and I'll produce the acid needed to etch the lock and the picks needed to thread the gears. It's all about context. All about the proper tools.

(Granted, I've never worked on an Air Nomad wind vault before. Whatever—that bunch was never big on material possessions and they're all dead anyway, so fuck 'em.)

So I couldn't bend like the Twins, didn't play well with others like Leng, and didn't have the correct combination of balls and brains that made Matsuma one of the Kingdom's premiere organizers. But you can bet your ass that I got a lot of work all the same.

Which brings us back to the inn—stuffy, candlelit, smelling slightly of owl-cat piss. We gathered about the splinteriest table in the shadowiest corner, slipping into seats exactly as we had slipped into the tavern. Before I had a chance to pull a chair, Matsuma rose from the shadows and gave me a tight embrace.

He said, "Tanak. Man. Too long."

"Sure," I said. "You really have a job for us?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

Despite the obviousness of the question, I had to think about it. "Of course you have," I said.

Matsuma smiled like devil and swept a hand to the chairs. "Well, this ain't exactly whether I slept with Kyung Miao back on Blue Tongue Island. Sit. Be enlightened."

I did. As the rest of us exchanged overdue greetings, Matsuma called in a round of watery rice beer. When the cracked clay cups were distributed and a scowling tavern-keeper paid up, we set to the business at hand.

It was Matsuma's show. "So," he began, indulging in his usual blithe theatricality. "Here we are."

"Oh, yes. That goes without saying." Leng spoke with a moony, slow-eyed amiability that implied he wasn't far out from his last fix. "And as much as I enjoy this charming little . . . _corner _of the world, I for one would like to know _why _I'm here."

Matsuma said, "Well. None of you are particularly stupid, so you've probably already figured out that the work is goin' to be in Omashu."

Nods all around. Leng said, "That's what first caught my interest, dear boy. There isn't much of value outside the city walls these days, so that meant a run in the upside-down hell-pit." His grin was too white, too meticulous. "So that means that you've either gone insane or you've found us something too hot to be passed up. Please tell me it's the second thing, as I do hate to have friends committed."

"Agreed," said Kuru. He leaned in his chair and folded his brawny arms across his chest.

I sipped weak beer and remained silent. Matsuma had been responsible for too many of my paydays for me to start questioning him now.

"I know, I know," said Matsuma, holding up his hands. "But I can definitely assure you that it's the, ah, second thing. The good one." He leaned in, holding his grin, looking for all the world like a festival barker about to tell us the _good chance _we had at his booth. Difference was that when it was Matsuma doing the talking, we really did have that chance.

"Here's how it is. I have a line on a piece of merchandise that's just waitin' for an interested party to, ah, procure it. It's one-of-a-kind, damn near priceless, and—best of all—not even under lock and key. It's sittin' in some warehouse up in the shippin' district, plum for someone to come along and show some interest."

I frowned. "Who's it belong to?" I liked to know who I was stealing from. That way I could calculate the risk-to-reward ratio proper-like.

"That's the real beauty of it," Matsuma said. "Some merchant out of Ba Sing Se owns it on paper, but so far as I know he has no idea that it even exists. Picked it up with a bulk lot in an estate sale. Even if someone were to make off with it, odds are he wouldn't even get why they took it."

"Could we pull heat?"

"Not really. He's not the type, so far as I can tell. He's not some gang boss, if that's what you're askin'."

"That's what I'm asking."

"Then no. Emphatically no. The moment we pull this baby from the warehouse, we're free as birds."

Wen lit one of the small, hand-rolled cigarettes he preferred. This meant that Kuru would soon do the same. Wen inhaled, grimaced through his beard, and said, "Get to the point, man. What is it? Jewels? Some Nation administrator's gold?" His words travelled on a wave of dirt-reeking smoke.

Matsuma swept his gaze over the four of us, eyes huge and mouth twisted in a smirk. He took a big breath. Fucking theatrics. At last, he whispered, "It's the Spirit Totem of Shunai."

I blinked, then looked around to see if anyone else knew what the hell the man was talking about. The blank faces arrayed about the table told me that I was in no minority.

I grunted, "Shunai? Never heard of it."

Without missing a beat, Matsuma said, "Not surprised. It used to be a fishing hub up on the North Coast. Famous for braggin' about the river spirit that protected them. About fifty years ago, they made the mistake of declaring allegiance to the Northern Water Tribe and hopin' that the reputation of the spirit would keep 'em safe."

"And?"

He grinned darkly. "And the Nation burned the town to bedrock."

"And . . . this . . . totem?" Leng asked.

"It was the centerpiece to the temple of the river spirit. A big ivory carving of the spirit itself, supposedly. It's one of the few artifacts that survived the razing of Shunai. I've asked around, and some of the experts on this sort of thing say that it's over a thousand years old."

Ah. Art. This I could jibe with. Still.

"And the owner has no idea?" I asked.

Matsuma shrugged. "All sources point that way, Tanak. It's floated from hand to hand over the decades—never very long in one place. Mostly Fire Nation shitheads. No offense, Leng."

Leng smiled emptily and raised his mug. "None taken, my good man."

"Anyway, this last guy bought it along with some other rich, dead asshole's possessions about a year back. Then came the occupation, and it gets shoved in the back of a storehouse to gather dust. My contact with the colonial government says as much, anyway."

"He legit?" Kuru asked. Rank tobacco smoke unspooled from between his fingers and rose lazily to the rafters.

"My contact?"

"Of course."

Matsuma's smile remained, but at the same time he drilled Kuru with his eyes. "My contact's solid. Doesn't even want a cut. Just a flat fee—enough to get out of Omashu for good. A goddamn pittance compared to what we'll make with this thing."

Wen said, "Can we really sell this thing, man? Sounds like it'd be hard to find a buyer."

"Are you kiddin'? There are collectors in Ba Sing Se who would cut off their own feet for just a chance at this thing."

"So," I said, "you have a fence lined up?"

Matsuma's smile went all rigid—the sort of look he tended to get when he had to humor someone he didn't think was worth his time.

He said, "Well—you know. This kind of thing ain't instantaneous."

"No, then."

"No."

"Fair enough."

Leng tittered. He stroked a thumb over his charcoal-sketch mustache and said, "You inspire so much confidence, dear Matsu. If you cannot guarantee a buyer, I walk."

That, _Who farted?_ smile transformed into a pale grimace. Matsuma said, "Listen. You can't just shop this kind of thing around. People talk. Everybody may be distracted by the end of the war, but news of someone trying to price the Spirit Totem would get out. It's not like we're borrowing the damned thing. The guy who owns it? He obviously doesn't give much of a shit about it if he's not storing it in a vault, but this is still a fuckin' robbery. I had no desire to tip him off before I even pulled together a crew."

Though Kuru and I nodded, Wen and Leng remained skeptical. Despite my tacit agreement with Matsuma, I knew what they were feeling. This was not shit they wanted to screw around with. Nothing was worse than merchandise you'd risked your life to obtain, but couldn't offload. "Useless" didn't even begin to describe it.

The two naysayers grumbled about it for some minutes more, until Matsuma cut in with a hiss that bordered on a howl. I felt my neck muscles tense as shaded eyes turned to glance at us from the other corners of the inn.

"Guys. Guys!" Matsuma growled. "Listen. You have to understand. We pull this off? We'll never have to work another day of our lives. The appraisers I've contacted about the totem say that it's one of the rarest pieces of religious art ever created. _There will be buyers_."

The other men quieted. For all their misgivings, even they could feel opportunity's increasingly fevered knocking.

"Now, I'm not going to say that this is going to be easy. You know it's not. It's fuckin' Omashu, right? You'll have to work for your money, no doubt. Also, you have to decide _tonight_. No sleepin' on this shit. We've got the perfect window to pick this thing up, but we have to act fast. The next week or two, tops. After that, the opportunity's gone and so's the payoff," said Matsuma.

"Why now?" asked Kuru.

"You been awake the last month?" Matsuma laughed. "Think about it. What better time than now? The occupation is gonna end, and soon. Once the reins get passed, we're back to the drawing slate. No—it's now or never."

"I assume you have a plan," said Leng. Ever the droll bastard.

"I've got it all worked out. Got the resources, the safehouse, everything. Trust your pal Matsu." The grin returned, triumphant.

Five men stared at one another, uncertain but undeniably curious. No doubt turning sums over in their heads. Imagining themselves in island villas or hillside mansions.

After spending some minutes of the conversation silent, I spoke up. In the quiet murmur of the inn, my voice sounded (even to me) like rocks rolling into a chasm. I said, "You know that I'm in, Matsu. Absolutely. But maybe you ought to fill these gentlemen in on the specifics of your plan. Just to give 'em a bit of reassurance."

"Sure," Matsuma chuckled. "Definitely. When the man's right, he's right. So: Here's how it's going to play."

Matsuma explained it all. We leaned in, nursed our mealy beers, and listened. It was one hell of a pitch.


	2. 2

**2**

This is how the job would play:

We were going to take advantage of the city. Omashu—the one town no one wanted to hit.

Omashu was odd because, for such a big city, it had almost no crime. Well—of course there was a little. Anywhere you set up more than two people, at least one of 'em will start thinking of a way to fuck over the others.

Point was: Omashu's crime wasn't remotely organized. It wasn't Ba Sing Se, with its Chungs and Laos and Black Eagles fighting it out in the streets. None of that Triad business you hear about these days. No—Omashu's criminal culture was small and disconnected. Copper-ante stuff. The usual pickpockets and petty grifters. A bookie here; a whorehouse the size of a broom closet there. Most people in the city tried to keep their noses clean.

And who could blame 'em? Omashu's King was crazier than a worm-rat. It was said that he saw to every punishment personally, and that they were all twistingly exotic. Better to pass up that easy filch than have your hands ground up and mixed into a barrel of cement. Better to leave that mark alone than get cast into an arena with two-dozen midgets in executioners' costumes.

All that changed with the occupation. King Bumi gave up the city without a fight—or so they said. The rumors flew so thick and fast in those days it was impossible to know. Then most of Omashu's population fled—with the help of the Avatar, if you believed the stories—leaving behind a thinly populated town filled with confused, ornery Fire Nation grunts.

Now, the city was readying itself for the departure of the Nation and the return of its King. Portions of the Fire Nation garrison had already left, ordered back to the homeland to bolster the place's defense during the transitional period. At the same time, Omashu's citizens has resisted returning until the entire occupational force was out. They might be hanging their hats in some forsaken refugee camp up in the hills, but it was sure as shit better than running afoul of a bunch of frustrated soldiers on the losing side of the war.

In every state of uncertainty, there is also opportunity.

"So," Leng ventured as Matsuma gulped beer. "During this brief interval, Omashu will play host to neither the draconian occupational force of the Fire Nation nor the crazed-but-ironclad legal apparatus of King Bumi. While the city's rightful ruling parties take back the reins, it's your intention to swoop in for a little of that old-school criminality."

Matsuma smiled genuinely. "That's the long and short of it. But, just to clarify, we're gonna need at least a few Fire Nation stooges in the city for this thing to work."

Without prompting, Matsuma continued his hushed explanation. If anyone else in the inn found our hunched postures and whispered words at all out of the ordinary, they kept it to themselves. Good. You could always count on that sort of place for a bit of discretion.

Turned out that Matsuma had designed the hit to be a two-prong deal. The ol' hammer-and-anvil gig. It was less direct than a smash-and-grab and not as elegant as a straight filch, but in this case it sounded like the best bet for getting the totem and skipping town with a minimum of broken bones.

"You'll be the key man here, Leng. Without you, we may as well pack our bags and go home," Matsuma explained. Leng just smiled—joylessly, it seemed—and gestured for Matsuma to go on.

We would talk our way into the storehouse. Well, Leng would do the talking. The rest of us just had to look the part. Matsuma had gotten a hold of Fire Nation military uniforms. Not so hard in those days, but it took some work to not end up with the ones with crushed helmets, holes from ice blades or arrows, and blood stains. The ones that Matsu had procured were untouched—and a matched set to boot. Two set of soldiers' armor and the uniform for a lieutenant in the occupational administrative corps.

"Wait. Just three uniforms?" Wen said. Smoke seeped from between his lips.

Matsuma said, "That's the game. Three's the standard number for your basic inspection team. One quartermaster flunky to look things over and two guards for escort. Fire Nation bureaucracy at its finest."

Before there could be any further explanation, Kuru cut in, "Why not five?"

Matsuma shook his head. "Anything more than three and it'll look like a genuine raid. That'd spook the guards before we even set foot in their doorway. Might even bring down the real Nation filth down on us."

"Wait. So it's not the Nation we're trying to convince here?" asked Kuru.

"That's the beauty of it," Matsuma grinned. "These guys are all private security. Hired by the warehouse owner to stick around durin' the interval. With Leng playin' the bossy occupational inspector, we walk straight in the front door 'searchin' for contraband.' We claim it's a mop-up inspection in the run-up to the handover. Me an' Tanak'll come in disguised as the escorts. I even got the armor with the faceplates. They won't even see this big lug's giveaway skin tone."

"Plenty of people my color working for the Nation," I said. It was more an observation than an argument—after all, Matsuma had a point. The less the private guards had to be suspicious about, the easier it'd be talking our way into the storehouse.

There was, however, a rather large dangling issue. Matsuma—showy as he ever was—jumped in on the moment of hesitation with the next phase of the plan. He forked two fingers at the Twins and said, "That's where _you _come in, boys."

Kuru and Wen eyed each other warily.

"How?"

Matsuma said, "Why, it's you guys who get to have all the fun on this job."

According to Matsuma, the warehouse storing the spirit totem was located on one of the middle-tier districts of Omashu. A nondescript neighborhood of similar storehouses, wholesalers, and depots for the city's cargo-chute system. A far cry from any of the major Fire Nation checkpoints and well away from the prying ears of any residents still clinging doggedly to the city. The hit would still have to take place at night—no reason to press our luck, after all—but so far as target cushioning went, the place was goddamn prime.

At the same time, we couldn't just con our way into the place and then walk out with the statue in our hands. Even if we were wearing Fire Nation uniforms, the sentries wouldn't just let us wrap it up and take it with us. We needed to neutralize the guards, and Matsuma wanted to Twins to be the living sap to the back of their heads. Though they couldn't come in the front door with Leng, Matsuma, and I, the Twins sure as hell could come in through the back one.

See, it turned out that the storehouse had a depot attached to Omashu's cargo chute system. Nothing fancy—just a little station for taking in or sending out deliveries. That was the Twins' way in. Kids have dared each other to ride the huge stone cargo beds down Omashu's chutes since they first existed; this was just a modified version of the same idea. Kuru and Wen would enter the chute system at one of the depots higher up in the city, ride to the warehouse, and then park themselves until the "inspection team" gave them the signal to swing in and start busting heads.

Wen scowled, looking displeased by the notion. "How in hell are we gonna be able to pull _that _off? I ain't ever done anything like that. How do we steer a damned cargo bed?"

"Hey, you're benders, right? The whole system's based on earthbendin'. Besides—if we jump on the job now, we'll have a couple days to practice. I don't plan on goin' in half-cocked. Keep your head and you'll do fine."

Wen grunted irritably, but Kuru looked convinced. The second Twin nodded and said, "All right. Yeah. I can see that. So how many guards are there gonna be?"

"Six. No more, no less. You don't need to worry about takin' all of them out, too—once it's clear you've sprung the trap, the rest of us'll help mop up."

"Any of these mooks gonna be benders?"

"A couple earthbenders, by all accounts. No more than that."

Wen furrowed his brow and frowned. "And what if those guys are better than us?"

"Believe me, they're not. Every earthbender worth his rocks was off bein' a patriot during the occupation. These are just scabs, desperate for the work. They ain't gonna be any trouble for you."

Leng examined his empty beer cup and scratched at the back of his neck. He said, "So. Three of us in the front door to initiate the job. We gather the guards, make them think we're just disgruntled Fire Nation grunts inspecting for . . . well, whatever. Get them confused."

"Right," Matsuma said.

"Then the three of us signal Kuru and Wen to come in through the cargo chute. We bust up the guards."

"You have anything against straight killin' these guys?" Wen asked.

Matsuma shrugged. "Not if we can help it. I want you to make sure those benders don't get up while we're extractin' the idol, but I'd prefer we leave 'em concussed rather than dead. Bodies tend to speed investigations, y'know?"

Assent all around. It was common knowledge that straight murder tended to bring the heat so fast you could barely see it coming.

Leng continued, "And really, that's that, eh? We enter and distract; the Twins crack skulls; all of us grab the statue and run. Why, that's almost _pedestrian_, dear Matsu."

"What about a getaway?" I asked. "I know we're countin' on the city bein' half-empty, but it'll look mighty odd if three of us go in the front door and five come out." I more or less knew the answer already, but ya' have to cover all your bases.

Matsuma chuckled, "We'll go out the way the Twins came in. Those cargo beds can handle five easy. Then it's on to the bottommost depot, where I've already taken the liberty of spreadin' around some silver. Nobody'll be there to see us come down the chute, and nobody'll stop us when we slip out into the old tunnel system beneath the city. Once we're down there, nothin's keepin' us from leavin' the city. We'll be on the road to Ba Sing Se within hours."

A rough silence descended between us. Everyone thinking; everyone digesting. Matsuma smiling, pleased as a crooked mule-rabbit trader. Somewhere in the smoky recesses of the inn, a thick voice cursed. The beams overhead creaked. Clay cups clacked together.

"So," Matsuma said. He spread his hands to the group. "What do you think?"

After a pensive pause, Kuru said, "I think this could play . . ." His face was hard, but he was amenable to joining up. Once Kuru agreed, Wen joined almost wordlessly.

Leng said, "It's a complex venture. Many variables. If the garrison does end up getting alerted, we could end up very dead." He shrugged and smacked his dope-loose lips. "Then again, I haven't had the opportunity to play an officer in quite a while. That's always great fun. Yes. My services are yours."

"And you?" Matsuma turned his gaze on me. His eyes all but glowed in the gloom. "You said you were in before I laid it all out. What's your take now?"

What I thought was that there were two gaping holes in the plan: the contact within the occupation and the bribes Matsuma planned on distributing to make sure the depot guards would look the other way. In my experience, there was no such thing as someone willing to forego a cut. What if the contact decided he wanted a slice of the idol's sale? What if those depot guards just happened to pocket the coin and then turn straight to the occupational garrison? The rest of the plan was rickety but understandable, but those two unknowns made the whole structure look unsound. My doubts chewed at me; made me want to stand up and walk away.

What I said was: "Yeah. Of course."

That was that. With our agreement, the five of us were now bound to this thing. Matsuma could barely contain his delight. He passed out four rolled scraps of cheap paper. On each was the address of the safehouse and the password to get in the door. Matsuma declared that we would meet in Omashu in four days. In the meantime, all of us were on our own. That gave us enough time to think on the plan, consider contingencies, gather any necessary supplies, and maybe get our affairs in order.

We stepped from the crumbling stoop of the inn and into a night overflowing with possibility. Our goodbyes were terse and without feeling. After all, the five of us would see each other again soon.

While the others dispersed—striking out for their own beds and business— Matsuma and I lingered in the inn's dooryard. I listened to the rasp of insects and the muted clinking that emanated from behind the closed front door. Above, a nearly full moon shone down with a phantom-blue balefulness.

I shouldered my traveling bag and the two of us began walking. We hit the scrubby road perpendicular to the inn and started down it, neither of us sure of our eventual destination. There were small inns and hostels all over that country; no doubt we'd find a place to sleep eventually.

What they don't tell you about the Summer of the Comet—the summer that ended the war—was that it was hot as a Fire Nation cunt and twice as sticky. That night was no exception. The rains that had swept over the valleys the day before had only ended up summoning mud and air so thick you didn't so much breathe as drink it. The leaves of the jade-aspens were fat and glossy in the moonlight. Everything was tinged with their sap-thick scent.

When we were out of sight of the inn, Matsuma sucked a deep breath of muggy air and said, "I've got a good feelin' on this one, buddy. Two weeks from now, we're gonna be rich as goddamn princes."

I said nothing. Our boots crunched the gravel of the road. Our shadows travelled before us in the pale moonlight.

"Somethin' on your mind, Tanak?"

With a sigh, I said, "Why'd you call me in on this thing, Matsu? Not that I don't appreciate the thought. I do. Been getting fuckin' bored out on the coast. But you already got enough muscle. If you just needed a third to make the inspection team legit, you could've just grabbed any half-competent goon. Somebody like Guo or Chan-Wook or, I dunno, fuckin' Takeshi out of Shelltown. Whatever. Why me?"

Matsuma shrugged and stretched, yawning. "Ah, you know. Hadn't seen you for a bit. Figured I'd pry you out of whatever funk you've been in and get ya' paid in the deal. Besides—those guys were all unavailable."

"Don't blow smoke up my ass, Matsu. You known me far too long to be doing that."

Matsuma stopped in the middle of the road. I stopped with him. He frowned. "All right." He took a deep breath."I don't actually know for sure whether this thing is locked down or not."

"Oh, for the love of shit, Matsu . . ."

He put up his hands. That don't-kill-the-messenger expression. An unfortunate ration of horsebirdshit. "It's not like that. See, there's a _possibility_ the spirit totem is in a vault. It won't be anything complicated. This is just a storehouse, not a bank."

"Still," I rumbled. "Why didn't you tell the others? Why'd you act like this thing will be out on a shelf?"

"Because most likely, _it will be_. Seriously. All I know is that there are a couple vaults in the storehouse for high rollers to keep valuables in for short periods. The totem's not _supposed _to be in one . . . but if it's somehow gotten out how much the thing is worth, they might have stuck it in there."

"There any way to know before we go in?"

Matsuma nodded. "I'll tap my contact. We'll know way before we step through the door." There was something pleading in his expression—a neediness that I had rarely seen in the man. It was unpleasant to look at.

I blew a breath out my nostrils and said, "I'll need tools."

"You bring yours? If not, I can get some."

"Who do ya' think I am? Of course I brought my tools. About the only thing I did bring."

We began walking again. A torpid wind ran down the valley, shaking branches and rifling unpleasantly through my hair. Despite the hour, sweat soaked my neck and armpits.

"This thing could go south very easily. You know that, right?" I said.

Even when he wasn't making a sales pitch, Matsuma was all charm. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, "Hey. Tanak. Trust me."

And despite myself, I did. By all the heavens above, I did.


End file.
